


Smooth Operator

by pokey_jr



Series: Metamorphoses [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Masturbation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 13:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: Morty's tutor has an awkward encounter with her student's weird grandpa.





	Smooth Operator

**Author's Note:**

> I am a paragon of sin, please enjoy.

This story starts soon after you ring the doorbell to the Smiths’ house. Ringing the doorbell, and the dullness of your weekly routine isn’t the most important part. But when you think back on what got you into this mess, you find that a bit of context helps. So, you ring the doorbell. Summer answers.

  
“Oh, hey.” She doesn’t look at you. “Morty, your tutor’s here!” Summer is you from about six years ago, when you still had time to decide what you wanted to do with your life. Now, you’re a graduate student, locked into a field of study, but most importantly, debt. You envy Summer. Her family is relatively well-off. She’s seventeen, and only ‘thinking’ about applying to college, and community college at that. There’s no pressure for her. In the few times you’ve been over before to tutor Morty, you’ve heard her talk about taking a year off to travel around, maybe teach English somewhere they already know it well enough to make fun of her behind her back without her realizing. You wish you had that flexibility. Between your unrelenting schedule of lectures, labs, and field work for your dissertation, a trip abroad sounds like a lazy vacation.

  
Summer is still staring at her phone as she stands aside to let you in. You’ve only been to their house a couple of times before, so there’s still the awkward guest dynamic. You hover for a while before being invited to make yourself at home, grab something from the fridge, feel free to take a seat on the couch, watch tv. But you ignore that, for now. You sit at the dining room table, set your books down, and wait for your student. Morty is a good kid. Not particularly great at anything, but then most people aren’t. He’s average, and that’s not bad. Average is the majority. Average is reassuring.

  
His heart is in the right place, which in every other family should count for something, but in this house, it only seems to piss off his grandpa. Summer is a little better, having coasted through on her good looks and social demeanor. Beth and Jerry as a combo are unremarkable parents, though when you’ve spoken with her one on one, Beth can be disturbing and Jerry is less than mediocre. They balance each other out. The only loose end is Beth’s father, Rick. You’ve met him; it was brief and awkward introduction. After Jerry had enthusiastically announced to Rick that you were a graduate student in biology, the old man had just given you an appraising stare, then belched dismissively and walked out of the room.

  
After setting out the study materials, you pull out a book of your own while you wait. Again, in an unfamiliar place, it’s hard to concentrate. You’re trying to do some reading about coleoptera, just to catch up on where your sponsor wants you to be for the upcoming seminar. You’re planning to present some of the preliminary findings of your research on beetles-- an endlessly fascinating subject for entomologists and practically no one else.

  
About twenty minutes go by, engrossed in your reading. You finally look up and notice the clock. No sign of Morty, Summer has long since disappeared. Beth and Jerry should both be at work. Rick is a rare sight, usually choosing to make a few blunt observations about the worthlessness of your career path and then disappear into the garage, which you understand to be some sort of lab or workshop. He’s very territorial about it.

  
You close the book, only making a mental note of your page-- 42-- and head upstairs to knock on Morty’s door. This, you know, is a dangerous proposition. Boys his age have more pressing interests than math and biology. But he can’t afford to miss another week of class. You’ve been hired to try to catch him up on everything he’s missed from freshman and sophomore years, and you don’t like seeing people fail when you know they can do better.

  
“Morty?” You rap on his door twice, no answer. There are only two other doors on this upstairs hallway. One has a poster of teenage vampires on it, and is closed--Summer’s for sure. The other, across the hall from Summer and Morty’s, is slightly ajar. Against your better judgment, you go in, calling again softly for your stray pupil. This can only be Beth and Jerry’s room. It’s large, with a king-size bed and two nightstands. The curtains are drawn over the floor length windows, though a distorted shadow is visible outside on the balcony. You go over to where the glass door is halfway open, the cream colored curtains flapping in the breeze.

  
“Morty?” You step outside onto the balcony and become part of a scene that is definitely not Morty. “Oh SHIT!”

  
Grandpa Rick is barefoot, wearing nothing except a white lab coat with oily stains on it. And he's masturbating.

  
In tandem, Rick notices you and swears. “What the fuck!” But he doesn’t put his dick away. In fact, he keeps pumping, leaning back against the side railing. You can’t help but look at it (not the railing). Scientific inquiry. No! You quickly look away towards the street below the balcony, blushing.

  
“Sorry! I was just looking for Morty! I’m so sorry!” You wince, glancing back towards him to make eye contact, then accidentally at his dick again. It’s big. The phrase ‘baby’s arm’ crosses your mind. Fuck. You back away, already stepping back inside, but Rick has more to say.

  
“Can’t a--eeurp-- doesn’t a-a man have a right to masturbate on his own street-facing balcony in peace?” His hand is still moving. “Ah...fffffffuck.” His head tips back, he grins.

  
You force down a pulse of arousal. Your impulse is to sink to your knees in front of him, and beg for permission to suck his cock. But you just stand there, petrified.

  
“My grandson is a dipshit but he sure as-- he gets some hot co-ed tutors. Unnnnff--” Rick groans, looking you up and down. Maybe he wouldn’t say no, if you asked politely.

  
But you can’t. All you can do is ask if he knows where Morty is, and Rick’s response is unhelpful.

  
“Do I- does it look like I know biiiii--eeeeuugh-itch?! I’m jackin my fat dick here, I don’t wanna think about my fuckin grandson. Fuck! I’m doing this so I can- so I can get on Google Earth and shit, so when the Russians and the Chinese look at their grainy satellite images of this house they’ll see a neighborhood of gardens and picket fences and then BOOM! Me with my dick out. Yeah! All their research money, all those shitty analysts poring over photos all day, they finally get to see something worthwhile, so uhhh- unless you, you know, wanna be in these pictures, go back inside, huh?” He waits a beat, but you don’t take his suggestion. You know you’re staring, and he knows it too, and he loves it. “Are you just gonna st--stand there, or are you gonna come over here and suck my dick?”

  
You flush, embarrassed not so much by his crass invitation but by your body's involuntary reaction to it. He is tall, too tall, so wiry that it looks like his limbs and torso have been stretched and there isn't quite enough flesh to fill them out properly. And he's old, his face lined, there are bags under his eyes, which have a manic energy. He grins, wide mouthed, lascivious, baring his teeth. His long, bony fingers don't stop stroking even as he takes a flask from his lab coat with his other hand. He tosses it to you.  
He sighs, part exasperation, part enjoyment. The sound causes another flare of desire to rip through you. "Be a good girl. Open that for me if you’re not gonna help."

  
You bite your lip, and do as he says. You sniff it before handing it back to him. It smells like ethanol. He takes a deep drink, sucking on it like it’s a bottle. “I’m-- I’m serious. I’m not giving you any if you’re n--if you’re just gonna stand there. Go downstairs and poison my grandson’s mind, or whatever it is Beth’s paying you for.”

  
You bite your lip, too flustered to reply. The dismissal is a relief, but it also stings.

  
As you slide the door shut behind you, Rick’s voice is rough, still ranting about how this is a highly scientific experiment. “...so big you can see it from space!”

 

**

Two weeks later, and your mental image of Rick resurfaces at the worst times. For example, standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, and you can picture his thin frame and long, long limbs leaning against that railing, completely at ease. Or when you’re on campus, attending lectures where you really need to be paying attention, and instead you’re thinking about the thick shaft of his cock and the way his balls swung back and forth as his hand moved up and down. And the lewd grin he had when he could see he was embarrassing you, when he realized the side effect of his scientific endeavor.

  
It's a memory that feels like it should be disturbing, except one night after a stressful day of teaching labs, trying to get undergrads to focus, you're lying in bed, and your hands run up your sides, under your night shirt. Would he enjoy how soft the skin was? Or would he be faster and rougher, single-minded as he was in everything else? The image of his lustful face and moving hand and enormous cock is still fresh. It's been impossible to forget, let alone stop thinking about for more than half a day. You can imagine him here, in your bedroom, licking and biting his way down your body, delighting in the reactions he could draw from you. He’d slide one hand from your waist down between your legs, thrust two fingers in you. And he would find you tight and already slick. He would hear you plead his name. And… what would he do?

  
This is where you stop your fantasy. You turn over, tangling your sheets, trying to get comfortable. Your arousal has left you overheated. It’s shameful and frankly pathetic, the way you’re thinking of this man. He’s a senior citizen, at least three times your age, rude and dismissive, and you hardly know him. The nickname ‘old dirty bastard’ would be appropriate, if it weren’t already taken.

  
You sigh, and heave yourself out of bed. This is going nowhere. You walk into the kitchen for a glass of wine, and sit at the dining table to catch up on reading and drink yourself into peaceful sleep.

 

**

The night before the seminar, the night before your presentation, you can’t sleep from anxiety. Despite practicing out loud in front of members of your cohort, and running over and over in your mind the perfect way to articulate each point, you can’t get yourself to just stop thinking about it for one damn night. The one night you really need sleep.

  
The hotel you’re in is Fancy, in cursive script. Your university department believes in your faculty’s work enough to spring for the best accommodations, and you’re lucky to be along for the ride. You and your sponsor each have your own room, and for your part, this is uncommon luxury.

  
It’s not even particularly extravagant, though it does overlook the lit-up city waterfront via a single floor to ceiling panel of glass. The first thing you did upon arrival was close the curtains. No need for any pervert with a telescope to get lucky and see you changing underwear. The decor is nearly all clean grey and beige, which is calming and unobtrusive, and the furniture and fixtures resolve in crisp edges of dark wood and chrome. It’s a temporary taste of elegance compared to your studio apartment back home, which manages to be spartan yet cluttered, and you are determined to enjoy every minute of it.

  
Except… you can’t control your own thoughts, and it’s immensely frustrating. You’re lying in a soft bed, already changed into your pyjamas, buzzed thanks to the free dinner and open bar from the meet and greet social a few hours ago. You had promised yourself you absolutely wouldn’t think about studying, or work, or the presentation in any way tonight. It isn’t worth it, there’s nothing you can do the night before to improve the content or your delivery, and it’s best to relax. So you had tried, enjoying a few drinks over dinner and jamming with colleagues who also love to talk about bugs. It had all felt great, you even forgot about the whole standing in front of 500 people come morning thing, until you got back to your room, changed out of your dress, and flipped on the TV. Then all the anxiety trickled back.

  
You flip through the uninspired programs about entitled, capitalistic couples hunting for houses, staged dating, and trivia shows where nearly every contestant cracks under the slightest pressure. You think of Morty. He wouldn’t do well on any of those, poor guy. It’s easy to feel bad for him. He’s only fourteen, and who knows what they really want at that age? At least it seems like he might be getting some traction with his crush, though. But on a game show? The kid wouldn’t last a minute. Everyone wonders how they would do themselves. The questions seem so easy when you’re half-drunk, snuggled under a comforter-- and every question you don’t know you can dismiss as too obscure, or before your time.

  
You sigh, flipping the channel again where it lands on some rerun of an old sci-fi show. It’s a stiffly choreographed sword fight between two men, one dark haired, and one with white hair. You’re reminded of Rick. He would probably laugh at this if he was watching it--or maybe love it? Perhaps he would enjoy earnestly cheesy entertainment. Whatever it is, you have to mute the TV, because the 70’s era music is just too much to deal with right now.

  
You get out of bed and fix another drink from the mini-bar (all expenses paid, no worries), then flop back down and start playing on your phone. You switch between apps, growing bored quickly, unmute the tv, flip channels again, back to the phone, then the tv again. In between, more drinks. More wandering thoughts. Anxiety about the presentation is supplanted by inescapable thoughts of Rick. Maybe you should just text him. It’s a shitty idea. Nothing good can possibly come of it. But your inebriated mind decides that getting closure with him-- whatever that means-- will be the factor that allows you to drift into elusive, peaceful sleep.

  
All it takes is one text. The coward’s way out. If he doesn’t respond, you can pretend it never happened.

  
_Hey, this is… Morty’s tutor. I don’t have Beth or Jerry’s number. Just wanted to make sure Morty is doing ok, haven’t seen him in a bit._

  
Carefully crafted to sound casual and off-the-cuff, which of course it isn’t. With a pounding heart, you tap the send icon next to the text box, then throw your phone to the side, where it lands on the plush covers with a quiet thump. The alcohol is starting to flood your senses, you taste it on your breath, a residual vapor. Your head hits the pillow. Moments pass, you come a little closer to sleep. Rick won’t text back, but it’s ok. You have the fantastic memory he gifted you preserved in your mind like a lithograph. Prepare to fade out…

  
To your right, your phone buzzes. You find your phone, squint at the too-bright screen with bleary eyes. The text is from Rick’s number, but it’s just a string of emojis, eggplants and peaches in a vaguely inappropriate narrative. You sigh, about to drop your phone-- replying isn’t worth it. You’re ready to try to sleep, and face all the accumulated nerves you have about this presentation. In your hand, the phone rings. You stare for a moment, push yourself to sit up, then take a sip of your drink and, against your better judgment, swipe to answer.

  
“Hello?”

  
“Y-yeah, uh hello? Is this- is this- this is Rick. Who’s this? Who are you?”

  
“Uh… it’s Morty’s tutor. You called me.”

  
“Shit yeah, right, o-o-of course. Full disclosure I was dialed in to Planet Fworp’s version of the NSA, trying to listen to them talk about secrets, but it was just some ner-- some n-eeeuurgh-erds discussing the intricacies of painting miniatures. I must have fat-fingered it when I stopped the audio feed. Did you get my text?”

  
“The one with all the produce?”

  
Rick laughs. “Yeaaaahh. Remind you of anything?”

  
“Umm…” You put your phone on speaker a go back to the message in question. The series of emojis also includes rocket ships, tacos, cherries, a thumbs up, water droplets, even a train and a hole. His question seems like a trick, so you sidestep it completely. “Look, I’m sorry for texting you so late at night, and interrupting your thing with Planet...uh... Fworp?”

  
“Aaaah it’s fine, I was bored of it already anyway. Speaking of boring, you wanted to talk about Morty? Gotta say, when I get late night texts from hot chicks they’re usually more fun than that.”

  
You relax a bit. “I was actually wondering how your experiment turned out. Are you planning on writing up your results?” A note of amusement creeps into your voice.

  
“Can’t. I’ve been blacklisted from every major university, journal, and society.”

  
“Sorry to hear that?”

  
“Don’t be, I did it myself, I went in and made sure my name was there, so anytime I’m feeling sorry for myself and think about publishing all of my groundbreaking work just for recognition and appreciation and shit, they won't even accept it. No one will ever see it.”

  
“That’s a shame.”

  
Rick grunts on the other end of the line; it sounds like he takes a drink of something. “Yeah, you- you’re real lucky, you know that? Not everyone gets to see my-- gets to see me--eeeuurgh-- at work. Most people can’t handle it, but you did well.”

  
“Thank you,” you say, not sure what else to ask him about his work, if he even wants to talk about it.

  
Rick breaks the silence. “You’re cute for someone who’s made such stupid choices.”

  
Excuse me? “What stupid choices?” He thinks you're cute? No, ignore that last part. This man is trouble.

  
Rick belches. “Staying in school for so long. Devoting your life to studying bugs, having to rely on sucking up to people to make any significant career advances.”

  
The accusal stings because it’s accurate. “Yeah, well not all of us can be brilliant enough to mooch off our family and get away with it.”

  
“That udder ran dry a loooong time ago.” You can almost hear the eye-roll. “I've been helping--doing more for that family than they realize, they just don't know it.”

  
“Oh, like what, exposing yourself to the neighbors?”

  
“We all make choices. I whip my dick out for science.” He pauses. “You stare at it.”

  
“What?! I-I wasn’t…!” But you can’t even finish your denial, because you know it’s not true.

Rick’s smirk is somehow audible. “Haha yeeahh you were. You didn’t even go back inside right away.”

  
“I was in shock!” You protest, blushing. You’re embarrassed, and now arousal is seeping in too. You shift on the bed, throwing off the heavy comforter. “And you were the one committing a felony!”

  
“But you were curious. You had to get a nice long look at my dick.” He draws out the words, taunting.

  
You swallow, resting your hands on your stomach, fingers playing at the hem of your soft t-shirt. A low, pulsing desire settles at your core. There’s no ignoring it now. His voice alone makes you bite your lip and wish for him to do filthy things to you. When he reminds you of his… endowments, your fight is pretty much lost.

  
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you. You’re wondering what I’m wearing right now. You’re picturing me… oh, I dunno, on the couch, maybe?”

  
You are silent save for a small, traitorous ‘hmm’ that escapes your throat.

  
“Tell me you’re not thinking about it right now.” His voice is suddenly lower, and darker. “Tell me and I’ll let you go to sleep.”

  
One of your hands has crept lower and lower down your stomach. Your skin is so warm and smooth, you can't stop touching yourself. You need this. You don't want to sleep now. You need Rick not to hang up. “I…” you begin hoarsely. “Do you have your lab coat on?”

  
On the other end, there is a terrifying moment of silence, and you almost squirm wondering if you've gone too far. But then you hear Rick’s sharp inhale. “Fuck yeah I do. Thought you'd like that.”

  
“Are you really on the couch?”

  
“I am now. What do you-- what are you wearing?”

  
At the question, your hands feel your clothes, as if that would give you a better sense of what to tell him. “An old t-shirt.” With one hand, you squeeze your breasts over the fabric, thinking of Rick next to you instead of on the phone, doing the same thing.

  
“And?”

  
Your other hand moves to cup your mound over the fabric. It’s damp and hot. “Just panties.”

  
He groans. “I bet… I bet you’re really fucking wet, aren’t you? Your pussy’s getting wet listening to me, you’re squeezing your thighs together thinking about it. You want to-- you’re getting all hot and bothered think about my dick, right? You’re imagining what it would be like to take a-a fat dick like mine.”

  
You can only whimper. One hand pushes your t-shirt up, the other slips beneath the fabric of your panties. You’re just as slick as Rick said, and this confirmation of the effect he has on you sparks another current of need. You wish you could see him right now, sitting on the couch in his lab coat, with his trousers open and his shirt pushed up. You want to see him panting and straining and starting to lose control.

  
He hears you losing control and urges you on. “Tell me what you want, baby, I wanna hear-- tell me what you’re doing.”

  
Your chest constricts. “I…”

  
“Are you touching yourself? I know quiet little things like you just wanna get away with nodding and moaning, and that's-that's fucking hot, but we’re on the phone. I need to hear you say it.”

  
“I...yes.” The flood of shame at admitting it washes over you, enhancing your arousal.

  
“Tell me exactly where-- describe for me where your fingers are, what they're doing.”

  
“My, um, my shirt’s up. My tits are out.” You pinch the peaked buds of your nipples one by one. Each time you do, desire flickers. “I have one hand under… in my panties. I’m touching my clit.” The admission is freeing, somehow. You start to move your hands in the familiar ways you know like, the ways you do late at night, alone, in the dark. Except now, you’re describing it aloud over the phone. “It’s… unnhh… my fingers aren’t good enough.” You moan in frustration. “I need a dildo.”

  
Rick growls. “You need my dick.” His voice is rough and impatient.

  
“I want...Rick...I want you to fuck me, please. I want you to hold me down and…” you trail off, moaning, still embarrassed to hear yourself say things like this aloud.

  
“Yeah that's it, come on baby, let me hear you. My cock’s hard for you, you just-you gotta tell me what you want and where you want it, otherwise I’m just gonna pick a hole for you.”

  
“I-I want to be on the bed. And you holding me down, and fucking my- my pussy.”

  
“That's it,” he breathes encouragement.

  
“I… like how your cock feels, it's so big, when you're pounding into me at first I feel like I can't move.”

  
Rick groans on the other end. “You've never had a dick this big, have you baby?” He pants. “You like being split open, and I love seeing your pretty pink pussy spread around my shaft. You're trying to take it all like a good girl, but it's hard, isn't it?” He purrs. “It's-your pussy is so slick for me, you're dripping, but you're still so tight.”

  
“Yea… Rick…” You’re hardly conscious anymore of your fingers moving on your clit, only of the singular driving need that’s pulsing through you. You focus on Rick, his rough voice and low grunts, the stream of praise and desire he directs at you, even as he describes his own activities in graphic detail.

  
“I’m-- you got me so h-hard, baby. I’m stroking my dick listening to you moaning my name with your fingers in your cunt. Fffuck you sound hot. Such a slut for me, such a good girl.” His tone is almost affectionate, though you know in the back of your mind he probably doesn’t mean it. You’re too far gone, though, pressing flat against your clit with one palm. With your other hand you shove two of your fingers into your mouth, imagining it’s him-- his fingers or any other part of him.

  
“T-thaaaat’s it,” he nearly croons. “I wanna hear you cum, let me… uhn...”

  
His own noise of desire unravels you. A shock of pleasure hits you, immediate and unyielding. Your keening cry of his name is muffled by your fingers. He seems to hear it anyway, repeating obscene tributes to your virtue. The climax courses through your body, sweeping every element of your senses along with it, and you distantly hear Rick’s primal groan. His litany continues even as you come down, and you take the moment of your satisfaction to appreciate the sounds he makes. He sounds almost vulnerable-- though you have to assume that’s just you projecting.

  
About thirty seconds go by, just the sound of you and him catching your breath over the phone. You get up and grab a tissue to wipe your fingers off. Then you clear your throat. “...thanks, Rick.” What else can you say to him now? Nothing else seems important. Luckily, he saves you the trouble.

  
“Uh huh. Well, good luck tomorrow. Sweet dreams or wha--eeeuurgh--whatever.” And the line goes dead.

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into Rick and Morty fandom, I've only just binge watched the show within the past week. If you managed to read this far, thank you! feedback is appreciated :)


End file.
